


Do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me?

by SunflowerSupreme



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, fisstech, sad musician with a drug problem is my favorite trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: I think there's a flaw in my codeThese voices won't leave me aloneWell my heart is gold and my hands are cold
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 74





	Do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me?

**Author's Note:**

> Are you insane like me?  
> Been in pain like me?  
> Bought a hundred dollar bottle of champagne like me?  
> Just to pour that motherfucker down the drain like me?  
> Would you use your water bill to dry the stain like me?  
> Are you high enough without the Mary Jane like me?  
> Do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me?  
> Do the people whisper 'bout you on the train like me?  
> Saying that you shouldn't waste your pretty face like me?
> 
> \- Halsey, Control

Dandelion didn’t smell right.

If they weren’t in a crowded tavern, Geralt would have been tempted to give the poet a good sniff, but that tended to draw attention since most humans weren’t as in tune with their noses as Geralt was.

Instead, he settled for sitting across from him, giving him smiles, and telling himself that Dandelion wasn’t trying to get rid of him. Because it very much felt as though the bard was trying to run him off.

“I’m going to be here a while,” he said, tilting his head and giving Geralt an almost nervous smile. “Per-perhaps you’d prefer to meet tomorrow?” His eyes were slightly puffy, almost as though he’d been crying, but Geralt hadn’t seen or heard anything to suggest he had.

“I don’t mind,” Geralt replied, sipping his beer. “I’ll stay here, Dandelion, find me when you leave.”

That wasn’t the first time Dandelion had hinted that he should leave, but Geralt remained stubbornly in his chair. In fact, the more the bard insisted that he could or should leave, the more determined he was to stay.

He’d only run into the poet by accident since Dandelion was apparently staying in Novigrad, and Geralt had stopped by for a new set of clothing. While the poet would ordinarily be delighted to see him, this time he’d almost looked terrified.

Concern churned in the Witcher’s stomach, and he found that he barely had a taste for beer as he waited for Dandelion to stop showing off and flirting.

Finally, well past midnight - and honestly, the sun would be rising soon - Dandelion stopped at his side and said, “I’m off to bed, Geralt. I’ve a room here, and you’re free to join me.”

He waited until they were in Dandelion’s room to push the bard against the wall and sniff him. “Dandelion,” he growled, once he was able to place the scent, placing his hand on his forehead in order to pin him against the wall. His skin was cold and clammy, slightly damp from sweat although he’d not exerted himself.

“I- oh Geralt I can explain.” The troubadour rubbed at his nose and sniffed, giving a slight shake of his head. Geralt released him and Dandelion sunk into the bed, rubbing at his arms nervously. He sighed. “Alright, perhaps I can’t.”

Geralt crouched in front of him, peering up at him curiously. “How long?”

“I-” Dandelion frowned, then shook his head. “Geralt- oh Geralt, I don’t know.” His hands shook as Geralt took them in his own, rubbing his gloved fingers over the poet’s knuckles.

“I thought I’d be able to stop,” he said softly. “But- oh Geralt, I can’t.” Tears welled in his eyes, his lip trembled slightly. “I-I never meant to worry you, Geralt. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry, I- Oh gods I’m sorry-”

Geralt pushed himself up, sitting on the bed beside his friend and pulling him into an embrace. “Hush, Dandelion,” he said, making an effort to make his voice as soft as possible. He ran his fingers through his friend’s curls, setting his hat aside so the feathered plume wouldn’t be crushed.

“I can’t stop,” he sobbed, rubbing his face into Geralt’s shirt. “I need it- to think- to compose- to- to breathe-”

“No, you don’t,” Geralt promised.

“You don’t understand-”

“I understand perfectly. You’re intelligent and gifted, and you were long before you started taking fisstech.”

The poet only shuttered, leaning into Geralt and sobbing. “I need more,” he sobbed.

Geralt grit his teeth and snapped, “We’ll you’re not getting it.” He swept the room with his eyes. “Where’s your stash, Dandelion?”

The poet shook his head desperately, “No, no, no,” he stuttered, “Geralt, no, don’t take it- please- _please-_ ”

“Hush.” He pushed Dandelion aside, leaving him to sit on the bed and sniffle, as he walked the room, carefully smelling Dandelion’s things until he found a metal container. Geralt only opened it long enough to ensure that it did contain the white powder, then dumped the contents into the chamber pot.

Dandelion sobbed.

Geralt walked back to the bed, sitting next to him and drawing him into his arms. The poet leaned into him willingly, still whimpering and quietly complaining about wanting his drugs back.

“Don’t whinge,” Geralt scolded, giving him a soft slap on the back of his head. “I’ll stay with you, it won’t be so bad.” It was a lie though, and judging by his long whine, Dandelion knew it. Detoxing from the drug would be bad, very bad, and miserable.

But it would be better than to allow him to remain hooked, wasting his life in search of his next high. Geralt had seen too many addicts on the streets to risk allowing his closest friend to join them.


End file.
